


Quicksand

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Quicksand

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Quicksand by Imajiru

Title: Quicksand  
Authors: Imajiru  
Paring: M/K, NC-17  
Archive: Yes to Archive X and Gossamer, anyone else please ask first. NO Geocities archiving.  
Feedback: Please. To   
Disclaimer: The boys belong to CC, but we love them so much more than he ever will... This has some schmoop content, so stay away if you don't like that sort of thing.

* * *

Quicksand (M/K, NC-17)  
by Imajiru

Imajiru: been waiting for me? 

KrycekChick: Yup!

Imajiru: Sorry you've been feeling lousy. :(

Imajiru: I was thinking about your story. A couple different ways we could go with it.

KrycekChick: Oooooh. Very nice. I'm actually feeling a bit better now, though. I drank tea and took a nap.

Imajiru: With all the being-sick going on around here, somebody needs to be sick. Who do you want to be sick?

KrycekChick: Hmmmmmm. Decisions, decisions. But I think I'd like to see Mulder take care of Alex.

Imajiru: Okay.

Imajiru: ...So maybe Mulder was off investigating something-or-other. And who should turn up like a bad penny but Alex Krycek? Fulfilling his role as law-enforcement personnel, Mulder slaps him around a bit, and decides to haul him back to D.C.

KrycekChick: Works for me...

Imajiru: Okay. Let's go.

  
Mulder walked into the motel room first, alone -- and sighed. Sure, he'd managed to capture his longtime nemesis, and there was a certain vindictive pleasure in that. But now he was faced with the logistical difficulties of getting said nemesis back to D.C. to bring him to justice... and all he'd really wanted was to get home, crawl back into the dark little hole of his apartment, and try to forget the humiliation of this gfdsgfdlast investigation.

He'd been so certain that it was a case of alien abduction. So completely convinced that he'd expounded upon his theory, liberally and at length. And when it had all turned out to be a prank, perpetrated by a couple of thirteen-year-olds... He could only hope that Scully never found out; he'd never live it down.

Then, just as he'd been ready to slink back to D.C. with his tail between his legs, Alex Krycek had stumbled across his path. There was no way, of course, that he could let the rat get away scot-free, and it had been a long exhausting chase through the woods, through underbrush comprised mostly of thornbushes, ruining an expensive suit in the process. By the time he'd finally caught up with Krycek, he'd been too tired to manage more than a single half-hearted punch to the jaw.

And of course, when he'd tried to book airline tickets, his charge card had been declined... //knew I should have filed the damned expense reports,//but it was too late now; and the only course of action was to drive back, fourteen hours up I-95, with the bane of his existence occupying the other half of the front seat.

//Tunguska,// he'd realized belatedly, watching Krycek bend nearly double trying to scratch his nose with the hand cuffed to the car's door handle. It hadn't occurred to him that the other man might have fallen prey to the same fate he'd narrowly avoided, and in the chase, he hadn't noticed... Covert examination from the corner of his eyes while driving had confirmed the fact of the prosthesis, and to his extreme surprise, he'd found himself feeling -- 

//pity,// he'd told himself, ruthlessly, denying any tendency toward sympathy, empathy, anything more compassionate than condescension.

But even a one-armed Krycek was dangerous; so now he was checking out the motel room, making sure there was a place to cuff him. The headboards were bolted to the walls, ornamental, carved, with apertures that would accommodate a handcuff: Mulder tested the material, decided it was sturdy enough, and set about clearing the immediate area of anything Krycek might use as a weapon.

After satisfying himself that the room was secure, he went back outside. At first glance, the car seemed empty -- //son of a bitch! How the hell did he get away?!// -- but then he caught a glimpse of a leather-clad back, hunched over in the front seat, shaking slightly...

Closer to the car, he heard it: coughing. Hoarse, harsh, racking coughs. //Not my problem,// he told himself firmly.

A touch of pure sadism made Mulder yank the door open sharply; the sudden sideways force pulled Krycek off-balance, causing him to fall out of the car, ass-first onto the gravel surface of the parking lot, still coughing.

"Fucking bastard," Krycek growled, when he'd regained enough breath to speak; and Mulder worked very hard to keep his face impassive, to not reveal the small surge of triumph he felt at having gained the upper hand in some minor way.

He unfastened the cuff from the car door, wrenched the other man to his feet. "Come on," he said shortly, leading Krycek into the motel room.

Once there, he shoved Krycek down onto one of the beds, leaned over him to fasten the cuff to the headboard. "Why, Mulder, I didn't know you cared," the other man murmured --but the sardonic effect was marred by another spasm of coughing.

"You're going to keep me up all night, aren't you?" Mulder grumbled.

"I would, but I feel too lousy." 

About to snap back at him, Mulder found himself looking more closely at his captive. //He really *is* sick...// Flushed, eyes too bright, and the coughing sounded like heavy chest congestion -- //I don't care,// Mulder told himself, then repeated it again: //I don't care,// because he was having trouble believing it.

//What do you care if he's sick, damn it? He killed your father, he was at least partially responsible for Scully's abduction, why the *hell* should you care if he's caught a goddamn cold?// It should have felt good to see him suffering. To watch Krycek twisting uncomfortably on the bed, struggling to wipe his runny nose with his one good --now immobilized -- hand. It should have felt like a victory.

Somehow, it didn't.

//He'll keep me up all night, coughing,// Mulder told himself, so reasonably and rationally that he almost believed it. "I'm going out," he said coolly. "Don't go anywhere," with just a hint of a smirk in his voice.

"Funny, Mulder," Krycek spat back at him, before he was hit with another spasm of coughing. "Do you think you could let me have the kleenex while you're gone?"

Mulder tossed the box of tissues at him, resisting the urge to apologize for his bad aim when the corner of the box hit the other man in the face, and headed out.

//What am I doing?// he found himself wondering, as he perused the limited selection of cold medicines at the Stop'n'Shop. //He's a murderer, a traitor; I should just gag him and cover his face with a pillow to keep him quiet...//But the vengeful thoughts didn't keep him from selecting four different products that might ease Krycek's symptoms, or from traveling next door to the Chinese takeout place for soup and hot tea and dinner for himself.

Back at the motel, he could tell that Krycek hadn't escaped while still in the parking lot -- the sound of his captive's coughing was audible through the closed door. Inside, he found Krycek huddled over the edge of the bed, fighting for breath through the harsh paroxysms. No doubt about it: he was in bad shape.

//I don't care,// Mulder told himself firmly, juggling bags of medicine and food. //It doesn't matter to me,// as he dug through the bags searching for the cough syrup. //He can choke to death, for all I care,// as he fumbled the child-proof cap open, waited for the spasms to subside, placed the bottle against his captive's lips. 

Krycek tilted his head back, and Mulder tipped the bottle, and watched the other man chug the cough syrup with the practiced ease of a college sophomore ingesting beer. "Ugh," Krycek said approximately, afterwards -- more a strangled sound of disgust than anything coherent. "Why does medicine have to taste so damned bad?"

"You're lucky I'm bothering. I could just leave you out in the car all night, save myself the effort," Mulder growled.

"So why don't you?" Krycek persisted.

"Didn't you hear? It's Be Kind To Animals Day." 

A one-armed shrug. "Hey, I'll take what I can get."

On his way to the bathroom to fetch a glass of water, Mulder found himself considering Krycek's comment. //Something's wrong...// Okay, sure, the man was nursing a vicious cold. But still, the tone had been... off, somehow. Neither as careless nor as sardonic as he would have expected.

As if the man was genuinely touched to have someone caring for him. As if his actions *meant* something to Krycek.

//I don't care!// Mulder insisted to himself vehemently. //I don't...//

He popped two cold pills from their plastic bubbles, brought the medication and water to Krycek, who was coughing again, though not quite with the same ferocity as before. Silently, he held out the pills, and Krycek opened his mouth. Mulder placed them on the other man's tongue and held the glass to his mouth so that he could swallow them.

//I don't care,// he reminded himself. "You hungry?" he asked, making a special effort to render his voice harsh and brusque.

Krycek eyed him warily. "Some," he allowed, as if the admission of hunger was a vulnerability, a thing Mulder might use as a weapon.

//Drag him outside, lock him in the car, cuff him to the door and leave him there. Let him sleep out there in the cold, let him go hungry... it would be so easy. Why don't I?//Mulder wondered.

//...I don't care,// he repeated to himself, as if the three words were a mantra with which he could banish such restless queries.

"I got you some soup," he said, realizing as he spoke that his tone held the same caution, the same defensiveness as Krycek's had. //As if my feeding him is a weakness... and maybe it is.//

Immediately, Krycek perked up. "Hot and sour?"

"Egg drop," Mulder replied, feeling absurdly as if he should apologize as the other man's face fell.

"Did you get hot mustard?" his captive queried, less hopefully.

Mulder checked the bag. "Yeah," he said, pulling out a couple of the little packets.

Another one-armed shrug. "It'll do, I guess."

"It had better," Mulder growled.

"Like I said, I'll take what I can get." The melancholy in Krycek's voice was all the more apparent, now, for his attempts to conceal it. "So. Are you going to take off the cuffs, or are you going to feed me?"

//Damn.// Those *were* his only two choices, and uncuffing Krycek was out of the question.

With a heavy sigh, Mulder dipped the plastic spoon into the take-out container and began to feed his prisoner.

It was slow going, because Krycek was still coughing intermittently -- once or twice, sudden spasms caught him mid-swallow, causing him to nearly choke. Try as he might, Mulder couldn't quite repress a certain sympathy -- because it was painfully obvious that Krycek was more than slightly hungry, and because the force of his coughing had to be making his ribs ache...

//It's pity,// he told himself, //Krycek's a pitiful creature,// while another part of his mind, less deluded and more impatient, struggled to attract his conscious attention.

After a seeming eternity, the soup container was empty. Feeling his stomach growl, Mulder turned to the bag of take-out food, intending to begin his own meal. 

"Hey, Mulder," Krycek spoke up, "even dogs get walked once a day, y'know?" with a faint gesture toward the bathroom; and grumbling, Mulder unfastened the handcuff from the headboard.

The tiny motel bathroom was windowless -- nowhere for Krycek to go, and safe enough to allow him his privacy. Mulder let him into the bathroom with a sharp warning not to try anything funny, waited outside the closed door with gun in hand... after a lengthy interval, banged on the door. "Hurry it up," he demanded.

"I've got *one* hand," came the exasperated reply, "these things take some time, all right?"

Somehow, the casual statement hit Mulder with an impact he hadn't felt before. //One hand,// he thought, involuntarily envisioning the myriad logistical difficulties of such a thing. From taking a leak to opening a jar of peanut butter... everything would change, become difficult or impossible. And Krycek was still Krycek, living a life on the run, in the shadows... how did he manage?

//I don't care,// Mulder thought; but overwhelming that insistent mantra came another thought: //It could have been me.//

Finally, Krycek emerged, coughing again, pale and rumpled. Wearily, the other man extended his single arm, handcuffs still dangling from the wrist, and for just a moment, Mulder felt guilty... //Idiot! Are you insane?// But the shadow of guilt persisted, as he refastened the cuff to the headboard.

//With that cough, it's better for him to sleep sitting up anyway,// he told himself ruthlessly -- and found himself tucking pillows behind Krycek's back, propping him up, making him comfortable.

A slight twitch of the other man's shoulder drew Mulder's attention to the prosthetic arm -- knowing now what to look for, he could just make out the outlines of the straps fastening it in place beneath the snug thermal shirt. "Would you, uh... would you be more comfortable without, uh..."

"No. Leave it alone." Flat voice, tone expressionless --but there was a swift flickering of anguish in Krycek's eyes: pain and embarrassment and humiliation and more pain, before his face arranged itself into bland non-emotion.

//I don't care, I don't care, I don't care,// over and over in Mulder's mind; but he had to say it, he *had* to. "I'm sorry."

Eyelids snapped shut over troubled green eyes, hiding any revelations he might have found there. "Shut up, Mulder."

"Krycek..."

"Just shut up."

And Mulder turned away fast, lest Krycek look up and see the sparkle of the tears suddenly stinging his eyes.

//How did it happen?// he found himself wondering, as he absently picked at his chicken lo mein. //Not a clean amputation, not there. Was it the way it would have been, if it had happened to me? Did they -- whoever 'they' were --give him anything to dull the pain? Did they even give him anything to bite down on, while they were cutting his arm off?//

//What a useless, senseless loss. What a waste. To lose a limb, for nothing...// Mulder sighed. //I don't care,// he told himself, and knew it was a lie.

"You want some of this?" he found himself asking Krycek, indicating his dinner.

A forlorn sigh was his answer. "I'd love some. But I don't think my stomach could handle it."

And as if to underscore the remark, another coughing fit began, fierce and exhausting; it left Krycek doubled over, sideways on the bed with the false arm twisted behind himself, facing Mulder, as he struggled to draw breath past the deep congestion in his chest.

//I don't care,// Mulder thought, purely from habit, as he set the remains of his dinner aside.

"No," came the feeble protest as he unlocked the handcuff on the other man's wrist and began to remove Krycek's shirt.

"Shut up," Mulder said absently, finishing the job. He'd imagined what it would look like, the prosthesis and the amputation, had steeled himself for the image, but the reality of it... the straps were so heavy and thick, so constricting, and for a moment he couldn't help but envision what it would be like to walk around with a weight strapped to his body... and Krycek looked so damn vulnerable, with his eyes closed and his head turned away so as not to have to deal with Mulder's reaction.

//I don't care,// he told himself; but it seemed kinder not to waste time staring, not to emphasize the man's handicap with silence or stillness. So he busied himself with unfastening the straps that held the false arm in place, fingertips occasionally brushing against a body so taut and unyielding that it seemed the tension might break Krycek in two.

The remains of the arm itself, once fully revealed, drove home to Mulder the full horror he'd avoided in Tunguska. This was no clean,hospital-sanitized amputation; this had been the sawing-off of a limb, cruel and callous -- and again, tears stung at his eyes. He couldn't stop staring... 

But he *made* himself stop, because Krycek was trembling, ever so slightly, and he realized that it had to be terrible for him, to be stared at that way.

He fetched the package of muscle rub, squeezed out a line of the white cream and began to apply it -- he had to be careful, since there were friction burns where the straps had been, little abraded patches of flesh that would sting like hell if he was careless. With firm, gentle strokes, he spread the mentholated cream over Krycek's chest and neck, avoiding the sore spots as best he could, murmuring "Sorry," at the sudden hiss of indrawn breath that told him he'd missed... and little by little, very slowly, felt Krycek relax.

"That shit's going to ruin my shirt," Krycek objected, as Mulder attempted to draw the garment back over him.

"Well, you're not ruining one of mine," Mulder shot back. Yet it occurred to him, as he glanced at his suitcase, that he did at least *have* another shirt. Krycek didn't, at least not with him. It seemed needlessly cruel... and grumbling, Mulder rummaged through his luggage until he found a sweatshirt he could resign himself to sacrificing to the greasy menthol cream.

Afterwards, he got the other man settled against the pillows before refastening the handcuff, tucked the blankets around him warmly. "I forgot," he muttered, "there's tea, if you want it. Probably cold by now..."

"Yeah." Krycek hesitated. "Yes. Please," his voice almost embarrassed, as if it humiliated him to have to beg.

//Well, why shouldn't it?// Mulder found himself thinking. //No one should have to... I don't *care*!// he amended the thought angrily. //He's a lying scumbag bastard, and I don't care how he feels. I don't care, I *don't*...//

But he brought the tea, and held the lukewarm liquid to the other man's lips so that he could drink it.

By the time he returned to his lo mein, it was cold and unappealing; with a grimace, Mulder set the dish aside. Seeking something else to fill his stomach, he cracked open a fortune cookie and ate it, half-heartedly scanning the little slip of paper inside. 'Unexpected kindness brings joy to the giver as well as the receiver,' it said, in tiny letters.

//But it won't fill your stomach,// Mulder thought sourly, and tossed the scrap aside.

"I have to go to the bathroom again," the other man said.

"Dogs only get walked once a day," Mulder retorted.

Krycek just *looked* at him; and Mulder sighed, and took him to the bathroom, waiting wearily outside for the duration.

"I'm going to sleep," he said grumpily, when it was all over and Krycek was secured to the headboard again. "Don't wake me," and turned out the bedside lamp. Darkness settled around him, reminding him of how tired he was; slumber moved in to take him...

"Mulder," he heard a faint voice rising from the fathomless blackness to his left.

"What?" he muttered.

Silence, so lengthy that he nearly fell asleep in the interim. "Thanks," Krycek said finally, very softly.

//I don't care,// Mulder insisted to himself, as his mind rearranged itself into patterns of sleep. //I don't care.//

But he was tired, and consciousness was slipping away, revealing the underlying truth he didn't want to admit to himself: //I do care. Yes, I do.//

It almost kept him awake, this revelation; but in the end, he was just too exhausted, and slept.

\-------

Coughing.

Harsh, racking coughs. Strained, wheezing attempts at breath. Persistent, endless, weary, as if he'd been coughing so long that he'd forgotten how to do anything else...

Mulder was on his feet before he was even awake, fumbling for the handcuff key before he really knew what he was doing, freeing Krycek from the restraint and tugging him to his feet. "C'mon," he murmured sleepily, operating on blind instinct, sliding one arm around Krycek's back to support him as they stumbled toward the bathroom.

Shower faucet. Hot water, steaming hot, clouds of steam rising to fill the tiny room. "Breathe," he urged Krycek, easing him to the floor as the paroxysms caused the other man's legs to crumple beneath him, "try to breathe," rubbing his back in what he hoped was a soothing manner. "Easy, easy, it'll be all right," even though Krycek was too absorbed in his own misery to hear him. A momentary flash of awareness drove him into the other room, for the cough syrup; he waited for the coughing to subside enough to allow Krycek to breathe, then tipped the bottle to the other man's lips.

Krycek drank, swallowed -- gagged, as another coughing spasm hit him mid-swallow -- then scrambled blindly, frantically, toward the toilet and began to vomit.

The sound of it made Mulder's own gag reflex twitch, but he fought back the reaction, crawled to Krycek's side. Behind the retching, there were little moans, whimpering sounds of abject misery -- it hurt to listen to him, to watch him hunched over the bowl shuddering; it hurt as badly as if the illness were Mulder's own, so much that he forgot to remind himself not to care. It hurt, and there was simply nothing he could do besides try to ease the hurt: nothing he could do but keep rubbing Krycek's back to remind him that he wasn't enduring the misery alone, until finally, finally, the heaves subsided.

Mulder grabbed a kleenex and wiped the other man's nose and mouth for him, while Krycek struggled to breathe. He slid one arm around the other man's back -- "Easy," he murmured, "it's all right, you're gonna be all right..." Krycek crumpled against him, coughing and trembling and making those awful little whimpering noises, almost sobbing -- and at a loss for what else to do, Mulder held him.

//I don't care, I don't... oh, fuck,// he thought tiredly, massaging slow circles against Krycek's back. "Easy," he whispered, "take it easy. Relax." And it did seem as though the vomiting and the steam had helped to ease the congestion; Krycek was breathing more easily now, the coughing not as harsh as before. "It's all right, you're going to be all right," reaching up to stroke the silken hair that rested against his shoulder. "I'm here," realizing belatedly that *that* fact should be anything but comforting to the man slumped against him. Yet Krycek seemed to find it reassuring; the last bits of tension in him dissolved.

It felt like a dream: the steam filling the bathroom, obscuring everything; the warm solidity of the man huddled against him; the satiny smoothness of the hair beneath his fingertips. His cheek came to rest against Krycek's forehead, the blazing heat of the skin notable even in the humid air, and he thought he heard Krycek sigh.

How long had it been since there had been such a lack of enmity between them? Years -- and back then, the tenuous association between them had been built on lies. He'd never seen Krycek this vulnerable, so utterly devoid of defenses... and it was somehow comforting, the knowledge that this man was the *true* Alex Krycek, as honestly himself as circumstances might ever allow him to be.

In the dreamlike stillness, he could admit to himself: //I *do* care. I've always cared.// Confronted with the other man's vulnerability, the admission seemed far less damaging than it might have otherwise been. He could care about this man, as he couldn't when there was a gun to his head, or a lie being tossed at him *again*... he could care about this man, about his health and his welfare, could enjoy the feel of his body pressed close, of his pliant warmth...

Mulder realized with dismay that he was getting an erection.

More to distract himself than anything else, he reached out and grabbed the bottle of medicine. "Let's try this again," he said, and Krycek allowed himself to be fed cough syrup without moving; he seemed disinclined to remove his head from Mulder's shoulder. Which was perfectly fine with Mulder, because he didn't really want to let go.

But Krycek's borrowed sweatshirt was wet with sweat, and it would be better to get him into bed... a sudden image of himself in bed with Krycek assaulted his brain, and Mulder shook his head violently to dispel it. //That's taking caring too far!// he berated himself, doing his best to ignore his body's instant reaction to the imagery. "C'mon," he urged the other man, and reluctantly Krycek allowed himself to be helped to his feet and back to the other room.

Another sweatshirt, one he'd worn jogging, but at least it was dry -- more of the menthol rub first; and this time, Mulder was even more aware of the contact. His hand against Krycek's chest, the texture of the hot skin beneath his palm. The other man's utter stillness, save for the ragged breathing that might or might not be a sign of respiratory distress. The intimacy of this act: of allowing himself to help Krycek, of Krycek allowing the help. The simple pleasure of touching him.

He wondered, distantly, if it felt as good to Krycek as it did to him... was glad of the room's darkness, and Krycek's closed eyes, so that the other man wouldn't notice his hard-on.

"I can find you something more comfortable than those jeans," he offered belatedly.

"No! I... I'm fine," in a slightly panicked voice, and Mulder's eyes flickered downward... but it was too dark to see whether the other man was experiencing a reaction similar to his own.

And what if he was? What would *that* mean?

Mulder didn't, couldn't, let himself think about that.

He went back to the bathroom, to turn off the now-cold shower and flush the toilet and wait for his arousal to subside enough to allow him to take a long-needed piss, and by the time he returned, Krycek was apparently asleep. Traces of moonlight slipping through gaps in the curtains revealed just enough of his face to show a placid innocence, utterly incongruous with what he knew of the man. //But then, tonight...// The events of the night had been a discontinuity; everything he'd thought he'd known, about Krycek and about their relationship, had been ruptured by those moments of quiet comfort.

//How can I hate him now?//

//How can I *not* care?//

//Damn it.//

With the disturbing feeling of sinking into quicksand way over his head, he sat down carefully on the edge of Krycek's bed -- and eyelids flickered open to gaze steadily back at him. //I forgot to cuff him,// Mulder realized -- but Krycek made no move, just looked up at him.

"You think I can get some sleep now?" Mulder wondered aloud.

Trace of a sheepish expression. "Sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it." And for no reason he could name, Mulder found himself reaching out, placing his hand flat on Krycek's chest.

Krycek's arm -- his right arm, his only arm, the one Mulder should have cuffed -- moved; and Mulder felt the warmth of Krycek's hand covering his own. And still their gaze held, eyes locked, neither with hostility nor resentment nor anger, only...

...quicksand. Closing fast overhead, and trapping them both.

//This is insane. This is so fucking endlessly insane, and I *don't* care, I can't care, and what the fuck am I doing?//

And without letting himself think about it any longer, Mulder leaned over, down, until his lips brushed against Krycek's.

//This is insane, this is... oh, fuck...//

...as the lips captured his, parting, welcoming, wanting...

//...this is *wonderful*...//

...hint of sourness beneath the sharp sweet-bitter taste of cough syrup and neither mattering, only the sudden ferocity of lips and tongue, hard and hungry...

...and then Krycek wrenched away, just before the spasm of coughing hit him again.

"*Shit*," a furious mutter gasped between coughs, and Mulder understood intuitively that the anger wasn't at the kiss, but at the renewal of illness that had ended it.

And the burst of humor and empathy he felt toward the other man was so sudden and so pure, and so very far from any emotional reaction he'd ever expected to have for Krycek, that Mulder could only marvel at the utter bizarreness of the universe.

He got up and fetched cold pills, glass of water, cough syrup -- the bottle was almost empty, now -- sat back down on the edge of the bed and waited for the coughing to subside, then dispensed medication accordingly. "Get some rest," he said, not even bothering to rue the tenderness in his voice, or assemble any mental pretense of uncaring.

Krycek was staring at him, surprised and amazed and maybe a little confused; studying him, as if Mulder were some complex puzzle he was trying to decipher. "What..."

"Shh." Too much was happening, all at once. "We'll figure it out later, okay? Just get some rest," his hand reaching out to Krycek's face, palm sliding along cheekbone and jaw in a caress that felt unbelievably natural.

The other man blinked up at him. "Sure," he said, "sure, Mulder," in a voice that sounded as if it were on the edge of breaking.

And it felt so right, to lean over and kiss the too-hot forehead, as tenderly as if they'd been lovers instead of bitter enemies for all those years... and when Krycek's arm slid around his waist and clung to him tightly, it was the most natural thing in the world to embrace him and hold him. So natural, so right, that it would have been perfectly normal to simply slide into bed beside him...

...but it was late, and both of them were tired, and too much had happened all at once to be resolved in such a brief interval. "Rest," Mulder repeated, letting the embrace slacken -- and Krycek's arm tightened around him convulsively for the briefest moment before releasing him.

Even in the loneliness of his own bed, he could feel it, the strange new connection between them -- like a tangible force, electric, humming, setting the air between them afire. There was just enough light to see Krycek, turned onto his side now, gazing at him... 

Involuntarily, Mulder felt himself smile. And after a moment's hesitation, Krycek -- Alex -- smiled back.

Quicksand, indeed.

Fatigue overwhelmed him; Mulder closed his eyes and slept.

\-------

"Mulder. *Mulder*."

Sleepily, Mulder blinked his eyes open, turning toward the source of the sound.

Alex... no, Krycek. Fully dressed, prosthesis in place, standing at the foot of the bed. Holding Mulder's gun. Pointing it at Mulder.

"Stupid," he muttered, as the awareness sank in. "Stupid, stupid... I can't believe it. I can't believe I actually *trusted* you."

It seemed to him that Krycek flinched at that.

"You don't understand," the other man said, in a peculiarly low voice. "If I let you take me..." and had to stop, as the coughing began again; with an effort, he suppressed the spasm, and continued. "...take me back with you, I'll never make it to trial. They'll get to me, they'll kill me. And I can't let that happen. I can't."

Mulder settled himself back against the pillows and studied Krycek. Face flushed, hand just slightly unsteady as it aimed the gun in his direction, eyes fever-bright, and... different. Not the eyes of the assassin. There was too much else there.

"I can't let you do that, no matter how much I..." Krycek broke off the sentence abruptly, began anew. "I didn't have to wake you, you know. I just... I..." His eyes closed briefly, as if from pain. "I wanted to thank you. For everything." More softly: "And to tell you... I'm sorry." More softly still: "For everything."

And in that moment, Mulder *did* understand.

"So what are you going to do, huh? Where are you going to go?" he wondered aloud, in a conversational tone. "You're still sick, you know. You're not going to get any better, running around in the cold; you're only going to get worse, and who'll take care of you then?"

"I don't have a *choice*!" Such bitterness in the angry retort. Such bitterness, and such loneliness, and such pain.

"Yes, you do." The gun pointed at him didn't worry him, now; he had no fear of this man anymore. "You can take off your clothes, and get back into bed, and let me take care of you. And when you're feeling well again..." //I can't really be saying this, can I?// "...I'll let you go."

Krycek stared at him as if he'd never seen him before; and Mulder met the gaze steadily, wondering what the hell he was doing and not really caring. The quicksand was all around them, too thick and cloying to permit escape -- and there was a warmth that made him not want to struggle free.

The other man shook his head slightly; and sadness swept through Mulder. And then, very slowly, Krycek set the gun down on the dresser.

Mulder stayed very still as Krycek -- Alex again, now --moved back to his own bed, sat down on the edge of the mattress. The moment was too precarious, too fragile; any sudden moves, and Alex might bolt and run. "I can't believe I'm doing this," the other man muttered.

"Then that makes two of us," Mulder offered.

Alex glanced at him then, with a tentative smile; and Mulder knew that everything would be all right.

He slid out of bed and began to undress Alex: jacket and shirt and prosthesis, to begin with. Retrieving the sweatshirt Alex had been wearing, it touched Mulder to realize that even in the midst of flight, the other man had been thoughtful enough to fold the borrowed garment neatly. 

Alex was still, passive, allowed himself to be undressed, not moving to help -- trembling slightly, a tremor that grew more intense as Mulder knelt to remove the boots. His socks had holes in them; Mulder tossed the pair into the nearest trash can, intending to replace them with some of his own. 

It occurred to Mulder that Alex could probably take off his own jeans. But there was no way he was going to let that happen. "Stand up," he murmured, and Alex stood -- shaking like a leaf, now; as badly as Mulder's hands shook as they fumbled with the button at his waist. No mistaking the effect this was having on Alex: and Mulder ached with wanting to let his hands drift downward, to explore that impressive bulge -- and he didn't quite dare; not now, not yet.

But even the slight pressure of his hands unzipping the fly caused a sharp gasp of indrawn breath, a quick shudder that raced through Alex's body -- and he was too close, and it was too tempting; Mulder pulled down jeans and underwear at once, and wrapped his hand around the evidence of the other man's desire.

A trembling, whimpering moan, such a plaintive, vulnerable sound; Alex swayed and nearly fell, and Mulder abandoned other pursuits to move quickly and catch him before he could.

Standing, now, holding Alex close, and the only option that made sense was to pull him even closer and kiss him. Kiss him, feel his body pressed close, hard-on rubbing against his own, the single arm clutching at him with enough strength for two; and being kissed, deeply and thoroughly with more hunger and desperation than he would have thought possible.

And then Alex started coughing again, coughing and swearing between coughs, and Mulder couldn't help but laugh.

"It's okay," he whispered into the other man's ear, holding him and steadying him against the spasms, "it's okay, we have time."

"Do we?" between paroxysms, spoken in that same bitter, lonely voice. "I don't think we do."

"We'll *make* time," Mulder insisted, aware that he was making a promise -- and that his words would have repercussions far beyond a few days of sharing a motel room -- and feeling the utter *rightness* of it so strongly that he couldn't bring himself to regret a word of it.

He kissed Alex's cheek, marveling at the tenderness he was feeling. "We'll make time," he repeated, willing Alex to believe it; and as the coughs subsided, he felt the other man relax in his arms, in silent surrender.

It seemed more important than anything else to get Alex comfortable and warm; forcing himself to ignore temptation, he helped the other man into borrowed sweatpants and socks, and got him settled into bed. Of course, it would have been wonderful to crawl in there with him -- but Alex was coughing again, and there was no medicine left. "I'm going to get dressed, go out and get cough syrup and something to eat... and you'll be here when I get back, right?"

Sudden shift in the other man's expression: warmth, affection, something very like trust, open and honest and radiant and *gorgeous* -- and it left Mulder breathless. "Right," Alex said, managing to make the single word convey so much...

It was so natural to reach for him, to kiss him tenderly and passionately.

Quick trip to the bathroom, then he was stripping off sweatpants and t-shirt in favor of street clothes, acutely aware of Alex's eyes devouring the brief glimpses of nudity, fingers twitching as if longing to touch. Reveling in that scrutiny, while trying to think neutral thoughts so as to be able to zip up his jeans without pain. Trip to the store, food and medicine, and then...

Mulder still couldn't quite bring himself to think about that; but the thought of what 'and then' might bring warmed him all through, and in some places more than others.

Despite Alex's reassurance, he still couldn't quite believe that the room wouldn't be empty when he returned -- so he raced through the errands quickly, opening the motel door almost fearfully, and breathing a surreptitious sigh of relief to find Alex still in bed where he'd left him. Asleep, snoring lightly, wearing that expression of childlike innocence that was at once so ludicrous and so touching... he sat down on the edge of the bed, and Alex stirred; touched the other man's face with gentle fingertips, and was rewarded by the fluttering of eyelids. "Sorry. Must've drifted off..."

"You need your rest," Mulder told him apologetically. "But I thought you might want to eat breakfast before it gets cold."

He'd debated for a few difficult moments over the relative merits of different items on the Denny's menu -- had remembered the comments from the night before, and decided on a western-style omelet for Alex, resplendent in spicy salsa. From the grin on the other man's face, it seemed that this had been a good choice. "Thanks," Alex said, reaching for the plastic fork.

Mulder deflected his hand. "Are you forgetting how this works?" he chided gently.

Alex looked down at his wrist pointedly. "I'm not handcuffed now."

"And this matters because...?" Mulder cut away a portion of omelet, piled it onto the fork.

A shrug. "No reason," Alex said, and opened his mouth to be fed.

Strange. So strange, to be feeding him: so inexplicable, the combination of passivity and... *was* it trust? that Alex was displaying. As if, having placed his future in Mulder's hands, he was willing to take whatever was dealt to him from that point forward. Or as if... there was simply no more will to fight.

Quicksand, again, sucking them both under -- //but damn it, it feels so good!//

"*Your* food is going to get cold," Alex pointed out, halfway through the omelet.

Mulder shrugged in response. "Doesn't matter."

Firmly, Alex pried the fork out of his hand. "If you die of hunger, who's going to take care of me?" It was said with a small, shy smile that didn't at all fit the persona Mulder knew best, but which he liked. Very much. "Eat, Mulder. I'll be fine."

He grinned and acquiesced, seating himself cross-legged on the other half of Alex's bed with his scrambled eggs and bacon, eating and watching Alex eat -- with admirable finesse, he thought, despite the wobbling of the foil take-out tray on his lap. //It could have been me,// raced through his head, and again the unbearable wave of sympathy and regret... //If I'd known, I would have searched for you and found you and taken you with me; I would have done my best to prevent this, no matter how much I hated you. And would it be better or worse for you to hear that?//

//You hurt me, you hurt me so much, and I wanted to hurt you back -- but not like this. Never like this. And now... now all I want is to *not* hurt you, to take away the pain. What the hell is happening to me? To both of us?//

//Or was it happening all along, and I just never noticed? Never wanted to know?//

"I need to take a shower," Alex announced, after he'd finished his meal. "I *itch*."

Mulder considered this for a moment. "I could help," he offered, trying to keep his body from reacting to the image his mind presented.

Alex hesitated. "I, uh... I'd rather do this alone."

//It's not rejection,// Mulder told himself firmly. "Sure," he said, "just save some hot water for me, okay?" and Alex nodded, got out of bed and headed toward the bathroom.

The bed smelled faintly of menthol; he opened the door, flagged down a maid doing rounds, and procured a change of sheets. It would have been far easier to let the maid do her job, but, Mulder realized, as he stripped the bed, even that small interruption felt like an invasion of privacy. Besides, it was probably better if no one knew Alex Krycek had been here... Pawing through the nightstand drawer, he found a slip of paper which informed him that the motel offered laundry service at a hefty premium. One call to the front office and a knock at the door later, the bundle of clothing was on its way to being cleaned.

And Alex was still in the damned shower, and there was nothing for Mulder to do except watch daytime TV restlessly and wait for him to finish... and think. Too much thinking was dangerous, he recognized; too much time to poke holes in the fabric of what was transpiring between them... so he immersed himself determinedly in the antics of game show contestants, and tried like hell to think of nothing else.

He managed so well that it caught him by surprise when the door opened, and a dripping Krycek stepped out, towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist. "Your turn," he said.

Mulder barely noticed; he was too preoccupied with looking at Alex. Sheer beauty, all of him, and even the stump of the missing arm with its angry scars couldn't mar the glory of the rest of him...

...and Alex reddened and turned away: a half-turn, just enough to hide the deficiency from view. "Your turn," repeated through gritted teeth, a tone that held seething anger.

Driven by an instinct he didn't bother to question, Mulder rose to his feet and headed for the bathroom. He paused, when he was close enough to touch the other man, reached out and pulled him close, bent to place his lips against scarred skin.

He could feel Alex trembling in his arms. "Don't do that!" spoken harshly, angrily; and Mulder picked a different spot, just as damaged, and kissed that, too.

"Stop it!" with even more fury; and yet Alex didn't pull away as Mulder let his fingertips glide over the scars and knotted flesh.

"Does it hurt?" Mulder inquired, as the tremors grew stronger.

"You have no idea how it hurts," in a way that made him certain Alex wasn't talking about physical pain. 

//It could have been me...// "I'm sorry," said Mulder, knowing how pitifully inadequate the words were, unable to find anything more suitable. "But it doesn't..." //how do I phrase it?// "It doesn't change who you are."

"It changes who I am. To *me*." Alex *did* pull away then, moving across the room with quick, angry strides. "Go shower," he said, his voice tight and cold.

The bitterness, the pain emanating from the man made Mulder want to go to him, embrace him, reassure him -- but something in his stance (go away, go *away*) made it clear that this wouldn't be a good move. For lack of anything better to do, he headed into the bathroom.

//It could have been me.//

Over and over again, running through his mind, unceasing: //It could have been me.// Washing himself, seeing the agony only half-veiled behind the anger in Alex's eyes: //It could have been me.// Staring into the bathroom mirror afterwards, trying to picture his own body scarred and lacking: 

//It could have been me.// A senseless, stupid waste, and //it could have been me,// and //how would I have felt, if it had been me? Bitter, yes, and angry, and... and ashamed, for anyone else to see the ruined, scarred remnants, to be reminded with every gaze of what I'd endured...//

//Shit, what do I do now?//

Emerging from the bathroom, he found Alex in bed, fully dressed -- or sweatshirt, at least; impossible to tell what else he was or wasn't wearing, because the covers were pulled up high over his chest. //Hiding,// was Mulder's first thought.

Another burst of instinct, and again he didn't pause to reflect, just followed it: climbed into bed beside Alex --the left side -- without bothering to dress, stripping away the towel as he slid under the covers so that he was naked beneath the sheets.

The wave of sudden, all-over tension consuming the man beside him couldn't have been coincidence.

"Did you take any more cold pills?" Small, negative shake of the head. "What about the cough syrup?" Again, no. "Well, why not?" Mulder asked, in his most reasonable voice. 

"Just masochistic, I guess," in that hard, cold voice, shutting out Mulder's concern -- the effect was marred by another cough, one that Krycek tried hard to stifle.

"You see?" He reached over the other man and snatched up the cold pills, fumbling with the childproof cap until it was open. //And how would he manage this alone?// Mulder wondered -- but that was not a question to ask at this moment, if ever. "Take these," he demanded, staring pointedly into the eyes that refused to meet his until the other man took the pills from his hand, gulped them down with a swig of cough syrup. "How am I supposed to take care of you if you won't let me?"

Sudden, blazing fury. "I don't need anyone to take care of me!"

//Then why are you still here?// Mulder wondered; but this, too, was the wrong thing to say. "I think you do," he said, very quietly. "I think you wish you didn't."

"Shut the fuck up, or I'm getting the hell out of here!" But for all the venom of the words, there was more pain than anger in Alex's voice.

//Shame,// Mulder realized. //He's ashamed. Of the arm, and maybe... maybe there's more conscience than I ever gave him credit for. Maybe. Or perhaps it's just the pain...//

He reached out, let one hand creep carefully over Alex's left shoulder -- and apparently, this was the last straw, because suddenly the other man was moving, struggling out of bed...

...and Mulder lunged forward before he could complete the move, grabbed the other shoulder and pulled him close. Krycek drew a deep breath, opened his mouth -- and Mulder didn't wait to hear what he might say; just kissed him, hard and deep and demanding.

Gradually, the tension drained away; gradually, Alex stopped fighting him and relaxed into the kiss. When he felt an answering hardness rising to nudge him from beneath the borrowed sweatpants, he knew that he'd won.

Between kisses, he eased the sweatshirt over the other man's head, caressing him -- all of him, healthy and wounded parts alike. One hand gliding over smooth skin, the other carefully sliding over scars, as if both were perfectly normal. //All of you, Alex. Whatever else we've ever had between us, this has nothing to do with it...// 

"No," the barest breath of a whisper, as he bent his head to apply more kisses to the source of the other's shame -- then the faintest hint of a whimper, and another soft "No..." --and then Mulder was shifting position again, to brush his lips against closed eyelids and kiss away the tears.

"Don't *do* this to me!" Anguished protest at the soft kisses being trailed over his face and neck.

"What am I doing?" Mulder wondered, drawing back a bit to see his expression, to try to understand.

Eyes dark with pain and tears, eyes like a wounded animal, pleading silently. "It *is* possible to kill someone with kindness, you know. Or is that the idea? Next minute you'll be punching me again, blaming me for whatever you can..."

"No."

"Bullshit!"

"I said, no." Mulder leaned forward again, for another taste of Alex's tears.

"Why?" Alex insisted. "Because I caught a cold? Nothing's changed, Mulder. Just this moment; beyond that, nothing's changed between us."

"Everything's changed. Everything's different, now."

"Why?" Anger, now, in the demand; and Alex was pulling away from him, isolating himself again in his pain.

And Mulder didn't have an answer for him.

"The way I look at you?" he said slowly, feeling his way gingerly through the minefield. "The way I see you. That's changed. *I've* changed." Meeting the pain-filled eyes and letting some of his own pain show through. "And by the way, has it occurred to you what this is doing to *me*? But I don't care." //I don't care...// "I just want..." //You. I want you.// "I just want you."

"Damn it..." More tears, and Mulder ached for him, for the tears that *weren't* being shed: for the pain too deep and too strong to ever be released. And oh, could he ever identify. "*I* don't even want me anymore."

"Then isn't it a good thing that one of us does?" and he couldn't bear it anymore, he *had* to lean in and kiss away the tears, licking the saline trails down the other man's face -- and finally, the barest glimmering of his reward; a small, half-hearted smile gracing Alex's lips.

"You're crazy, Mulder." But there was affection in the words.

"People do say that," he agreed, easing Alex back down against the sheets.

Alex let himself be moved, falling back into that willing pliancy once more. "They're right, you know."

"I know. But when have I ever let that stop me?" Mulder moved, settling down on top of Alex, pinning him firmly in place to prohibit any more struggles. "Are you going to shut up and let me kiss you now?"

And Alex reached up and pulled him down.

Kissing him and kissing him, sinking into the heat and passion of the kisses, pausing to let Alex cough and then diving in for more. 

The incredible feel of skin against skin -- not enough skin; pausing again, to get rid of the sweatpants. Alex, stopping him before he could remove the socks as well: "My feet get cold," and pausing to laugh about that together, and then more kisses, hungry and tender and desperate and gentle all at once, clinging to each other as if no amount of contact could be enough.

Snuggling, settling into a comfortable position -- Alex lying on his left side, to leave his hand free to wander; "Doesn't that hurt?" and reassurances that it didn't -- and more kisses, and a few more tears, and finally the certainty that it didn't matter, that only the desire mattered. More kisses, and wrapping his hand around Alex's cock and stroking, amazement at the way that simple contact affected him. Touching, and being touched, and nearly exploding at the first touch -- it had been so damn *long* since anyone had touched him -- so aroused that it was enough, it was more than enough; and both of them falling into the same rhythm until he *did* explode, and Alex with him, moaning and shuddering and still kissing until the spasms subsided.

A moment of perfect, blissful, sticky stillness. And then Alex began to cough again, turning away fast so as not to spit phlegm into his face; and Mulder reached past him and snagged a kleenex, and held him until the coughing spell eased up.

"My chest hurts," Alex complained, letting his head fall sleepily onto Mulder's shoulder.

"Cough syrup," Mulder suggested. "Maybe stronger cough syrup," making a mental note to get up and shower and dress and go back out to the drugstore before it closed that evening. Sometime after the afterglow had finished fading.

Alex shifted position, glanced up at him. "You know, *you're* going to catch this now, too," he said, making it sound like an accusation.

Mulder shrugged. "I'll live."

"Yeah, but who's going to take care of *you*?" And the concern in Alex's eyes was a thing of wonder to behold.

No choice but to kiss him. No choice at all.

More cough syrup, and settling back against the sticky sheets together. "I should rub you down with more of that menthol crap," Mulder said thoughtfully, to himself.

"Dangerous," Alex commented. "Too much body contact. If that stuff migrates, we're both screwed."

He considered the statement. "If that stuff migrates," Mulder amended, "there isn't going to be anything remotely resembling screwing going on for a *very* long time."

Alex chuckled sleepily; and Mulder thought: //He's fucking gorgeous when he smiles.//

"I think you'll keep me warm enough," Alex decided, and Mulder pulled him closer, determined to do exactly that.

A nap seemed like an extraordinarily good idea, and Alex was already half-asleep -- Mulder closed his eyes, and let himself drift.

\-------

"Mulder. *Mulder*."

Blinking sleepily at the ceiling, Mulder thought hazily: //Haven't we done this already?//

He glanced at the source of the voice hesitantly, fearful of what he might see...

But this time, Alex was merely sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing the discarded sweats, nudging Mulder's foot impatiently. "I'm *hungry*," he announced.

Mulder allowed himself a small sigh of relief. "Beats having a gun pointed at you," he muttered, under his breath.

It took Alex a moment to remember, apparently; then his face darkened. "I'm sorry about that," he said, very quietly.

"It's all right. I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yeah... I really think I do." Mulder sat up in bed, reached out and took Alex's hand. "Lunch..." glancing at the dim light coming through the window, amending it mid-stream, "dinner sounds good."

"Let's go out," Alex suggested.

Mulder shot him a dubious look. "Breathe deeply."

Looking annoyed, the other man drew a deep, deep breath --and promptly started coughing again; but the sound of it was nowhere as harsh and ominous as it had been the night before.

"All right. If you bundle up warmly."

"Mulder, you sound like someone's mother." Alex inclined his head toward the bathroom door. "Do you want to get in there before I shower?"

"Maybe we could shower together this time?" making it sound like a question, even though it wasn't a question at all.

Another annoyed glance. "You're not going to allow me the least bit of modesty about this, are you?"

"No. No, I'm not." //Healing,// Mulder thought, //healing is a good thing.//

Alex sighed. "All right. If you insist."

And showering was good. Warm water, warmer skin... "Don't look at me," in a small, sullen voice, and, "It's all right," punctuated by a long kiss. Soap, slippery suds, clinging tightly together, sweet friction -- and so intense that again, mere touch was enough; a shattering shared orgasm that had Mulder grabbing for the shower rail to keep them both from falling.

"I think I'm glad you insisted," was Alex's comment afterwards, as Mulder rubbed him dry.

Dinner was Chinese again, at his companion's request; and Mulder watched him order three of the starred menu items ("Extra Hot N Spicy!") and douse them with hot mustard, wondering absently what his mouth would taste like afterwards, toying with the idea of leaning over the table and catching him between bites of food just to find out. 

He'd grown sufficiently accustomed to seeing Alex without it that the prosthesis was actually disorienting; he knew very well that the apparent left arm was fake, and it bothered him somehow to witness the falsehood. Of course, given the man's profession, it was probably wisest to conceal the 

disability as much as possible...

//...his profession...//

...and all at once, the reality of the situation crashed in on Mulder with numbing force. //Good lord, what am I *doing*?//

He had no idea what alerted the other man to the change; but suddenly Krycek was staring at him sharply, food forgotten. "Mulder?"

And Mulder looked at Krycek -- at Alex -- seeing the concern and the fear and the edge of hard coldness beginning to slide over his face like a mask -- and didn't know what the hell to say.

"Shit. I knew it. I *knew* it," and the openness, the vulnerability, was gone as if it had never existed.

Paradoxically, the alteration in the other man's expression was all he needed. //That's why. That's what I'm doing.//"Don't," Mulder said, reaching across the table to take Alex's hand.

But the suspicion lingered. "Why not? Sooner or later, you're bound to come to your senses," bitterly; and Krycek wrenched his hand from Mulder's grasp, pushed his plate away. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"Eat, damn it!" Exasperated, Mulder pushed the plate back toward him. "You want me to pretend I know what's going on between us? I don't. But that doesn't mean I want it to stop."

"Yeah. Yeah, right. As if I don't know what you were thinking just now. Like I said: sooner or later, you'll come to your senses." But Alex picked up his fork again, began to spear water chestnuts aimlessly.

Mulder sighed. "Just tell me *why*," he said plaintively. "Why do you do the things you do?"

"You think I have a choice?" A piercing, penetrating stare. "Mulder, you were cast into the life you're living now before you were born. Your role, your quest, your 'choices', they were all carefully structured for you. You're living exactly the life that *they* meant for you to lead." The eyes flickered away. "And so am I. I never had a choice either. Not for a single fucking moment. The only choice I've ever had is to get myself killed, so that it will all finally end -- and I'm not that suicidal; I want to live for as long as I can." Twitch of a shoulder, slight movement of the abbreviated arm. "Even if it means living like this. I do what I have to, to survive. That's all I can do."

Mulder contemplated that for a moment, feeling the truth of it in his bones.

"But that's not enough for you, is it?" again with that terrible bitterness.

He looked up. "Who says it's not?"

"You. The look on your face." And Krycek's mask slipped, just a little, just for a moment; enough for the pain to show through.

//The pain. That's why. Because whoever he is, whatever he does, he's human enough to feel pain for it. And that makes all the difference.//

"Look a little closer," Mulder said softly, "tell me what else you see."

Alex looked. Saw... something. Sighed. "This can't work."

"We can make it work."

"There's no time..."

"We'll make time."

"How?" Then, more quietly: "Why?"

A million answers chased each other through Mulder's head, none of them completely accurate, and finally he settled on the one that seemed the most true: "Because this feels *right*."

Another long, long sigh.

"Doesn't it?" Mulder persisted, suddenly afraid. //Doesn't it?//

"You *are* crazy," Alex told him. Sighed again. "And so am I."

Mulder felt his mouth stretch into a wide grin. "Whatever works," he murmured. "Whatever works."

\-------

Alex pulled the motel door shut behind himself, and Mulder felt himself shiver. All through dinner, during the drive back, this had weighed on his mind... previously, it had just *happened*, but this was different; this was planned. Premeditated. Not just one-thing-leading-to-another, no mere burst of sympathy or desire overwhelming common sense -- no justifications for this, and no excuses.

He turned, slowly, to look at Alex.

Green eyes met his levelly. Standing straight and tall, pride and strength and no small amount of defensiveness emanating from the other man. "Well," Alex said softly.

"Well," Mulder echoed, hearing his voice crack, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

The other man studied him -- shook his head slightly, turned away. "I guess you probably want to get some sleep."

"Did I say that?" Mulder wondered aloud. "When did I say that?"

A small shrug. "This is your last chance to back out," Alex said, not meeting his eyes. Remote, distant in manner --//afraid,// Mulder realized, in a burst of clarity.

"Come to bed, Alex," he murmured.

For a moment, time stood still; then Alex shrugged again, feigning unconcern, and began to undress. Mulder watched, marveling at the man's grace and economy of movement despite the impairment -- then went to him, and began to help.

Letting fingertips glide over skin, scarred and smooth alike, unfastening things until there was nothing *but* skin. Feeling that single hand undressing him with consummate skill, feeling his own body grow deliciously tense in response to that touch. Concentrating exclusively on the mundane task of undressing and being undressed, not letting himself think beyond that, until the task was complete.

Then the clothes were gone, no more obstacles, no distractions -- and Alex raised his gaze to meet Mulder's, and time stood still.

Those eyes, those green eyes -- he was falling into them, sinking against the heated skin and falling into Alex's gaze, being enfolded in an embrace so tight and strong that he barely noticed it was lopsided, clinging to Alex in return, skin and skin and more skin, and all the while falling into Alex's green, green eyes. //Quicksand...//Being sucked under. And wanting only more.

Mulder dipped his head, his lips meeting Alex's -- no thought, simply instinct, blind need -- and the kiss captivated him, captured him, dispelled the last traces of doubt and fear, leaving only desire.

Soft vibration of Alex's moan against his lips. Pliant in Mulder's arms, surrendering...

...breaking free to cough, sudden harsh rasping spasms. "Sorry," Alex muttered, eyes averted.

And Mulder smiled. Ran his thumb over Alex's lower lip. "Don't worry about it," he responded, and bent his head lower to fasten his lips against the other man's neck.

Another moan, more urgent, as Alex's hips thrust forward with involuntary need -- //need, yes, more,// and Mulder pressed back against him, gasping at the feel of it; rubbing together, friction, sparking flame between them. //Yes.//Need, and more, and more, yet Mulder could not bear to let go of Alex long enough to maneuver them both toward the bed, could not relinquish the contact even for those mere seconds.

...Alex wrenched away, coughed again, more deeply. "Shit," he grumbled, in disgust.

Mulder couldn't help but laugh. "Alex, it's okay."

"No," in a low, intense growl, "it's *not*," and all at once Alex was seizing him, kissing him, fingers digging into his flesh, a furious whirl of passion, obviously trying to hold it back, but the coughing began once more.

So easy, to pull Alex close, hold him snugly as his body shuddered. So natural to kiss his forehead, stroke gentle fingers over satiny hair. "Cough syrup," Mulder murmured.

Alex managed to still the coughing, shook his head. "The taste..."

"We'll cope," Mulder answered. "C'mon," urging Alex toward the bed.

A few quick chugs of ruby liquid, an all-over shudder that had nothing to do with pleasure. "This had better work," Alex said dolefully. "I'm getting sick of these interruptions," and Mulder felt himself laugh; he leaned over and kissed Alex -- //that *does* taste awful,// he found himself thinking, but didn't consider saying aloud.

Then the kiss deepened, and Mulder could taste nothing but Alex.

He was pushed backward onto the mattress -- Alex landed atop him, pressing against him, all strength and body heat; and Mulder moaned and arched up into him. Luxuriating in the sensation of arousal mingled with submission -- and then Alex began to kiss his way down Mulder's body, and just the *suggestion* of what would come next was almost enough to bring Mulder off.

Nipples, chest, ribs, stomach, finally... and Mulder cried out as talented lips drew him inside, tongue drawing patterns against oversensitized flesh, sucking... lost himself in it for a few breaths, then //but I want to taste him// flickered across his hazy brain; and he endured the agonizing loss of that pleasure long enough to shift position, wriggle around until he could reach Alex, too.

Long time since he'd done this. A long, long time; but some skills were never forgotten. Amazing, to realize that he'd missed the feel of a cock in his mouth -- astonishing, that the knowledge of *who* he was sucking made it that much sweeter. Delicious, not merely the taste, but the tremors and groans of pleasure he was evoking... and then Alex reapplied himself to his earlier endeavor, and the ecstasy was almost too great to bear.

It could have been over in a few short minutes; instead, they settled into a rhythm. Pleasuring each other, without striving for that sudden sharp ascent to culmination. Oh so sweet to sink down, deeper and deeper, into the comforting weight and pressure...

And Mulder stopped thinking altogether. Forgot entirely about the Bureau and case files, about his longtime nemesis, about the conflict being spawned between heart and mind. Forgot about everything but the seemingly endless pleasure of sucking and being sucked, was so swept up in it that he almost forgot to come...

...but suddenly there was that taut pressure in his balls, muscles clenching involuntarily, and Alex was whimpering and thrusting deeper into his mouth, closer closer closer until it happened for them both at once, in such perfect unison that their climaxes, their cries, seemed to blend into a single orgasm, a single howl.

Gradually, Mulder came back to himself, to find his head pillowed comfortably on Alex's thigh; he nuzzled the other man's spent cock briefly, then began the arduous process of forcing sex-drained limbs to move. It took awhile, but finally he was lying in Alex's embrace, snuggling close, tasting sweat-dampened skin.

Sleepy eyes flickered open; and Alex regarded him steadily; Mulder gazed back silently. Not knowing what to say, only that what they'd just shared transcended words.

Then those lips captured his again: taste of his own essence on Alex's tongue, intimate and precious.

//I could get used to this,// Mulder thought.

Unwillingly, his eyelids drifted shut, and he slept.

\-------

He awoke alone. No sound of water running in the bathroom. Bedsheets cold around him. Subliminal feel of emptiness permeating the motel room. Most telling of all: Krycek's clothes and prosthesis, missing.

//Fuck,// Mulder thought, feeling something hot and fierce stinging liquid at his eyes.

Glancing around the room, hoping he'd missed something, some sign that Alex would return -- heart lurching, wrenching, at the sight of the cough syrup forlornly abandoned on the nightstand. Lurching anew, differently, at the sight of the folded piece of paper tucked neatly underneath the bottle.

He unfolded it, blinked hard, and read:

You are an enigma. You are a paradox. You are a treasure.

These last few days have been incredible. I can't tell you how special this time has been, or let you know how hard it is to end it this way.

You asked if you could take care of me, and promised me my freedom in return for this 'favor'. Two gifts... but the price for the latter would have proven, eventually, too much for you to pay. 

Let me give you this one thing: let me pay the price for you.

Walking away from you now is the hardest thing I've ever done. But I *will* see you again. And will miss you desperately, every moment, until I do.

Mulder blinked hard, again, and re-read the unsigned note.

Set it aside on the nightstand. Reached out for it a moment later, folding it neatly back along its original lines. Then unfolded it again, and read it once more.

//Alex,// he thought, a mournful dirge inside his mind.

His arms ached to hold him, just one more time. His chest ached,remembering the feel of that body pressed close...

Come to think of it, he ached all over.

Mulder drew a deep, deep breath...

...and began to cough.

Hoarse, harsh, racking coughs; and he remembered a leather-jacketed figure huddled painfully in the front seat of his car. //Damn it,// he thought, //I caught his cold.//

But it was *Alex's* cold, and somehow, in a twisted sort of way, that made it all right.

Wearily, Mulder reached for the bottle of cough syrup and chugged it, several long gulps, the way he'd seen Alex do. He had a long drive ahead of him, after all. A long, lonely drive. Alone.

\-------

(Epilogue)

It was cold, even with the heat turned up in his apartment and the quilt wrapped around himself.

And he was coughing, endlessly coughing, so hard and so often that his ribs ached from it.

//I want to die,// Mulder thought dismally.

Scully had paid him a visit, bearing medicine and heating pad and her mother's chicken soup; the last had been very good, but unfortunately had only stayed down for fifteen minutes or so. He was *hungry*, but the coughing kept his stomach in turmoil; even tea was a risky thing.

Miserable, Mulder closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

The sound of his door opening and closing roused him from his fog. Instinctively, he tried to move, to reach for his weapon... but it was too much of an effort; if the Consortium had come to off him, he determined wearily, they could damn well go ahead and do it. A cool hand settled on his forehead, and he forced his eyes to open.

Eyes, gazing back. Green eyes.

"I told you I'd see you again," Alex said; knelt beside the couch and kissed Mulder gently. "Who else is going to take care of you?"

The world was spinning, he ached all over, couldn't stop shivering, felt sicker than he'd ever been.

And Mulder smiled. And couldn't stop smiling.

\-------/end


End file.
